


First Date

by apiphile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Crack, Other, unconventional pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile





	First Date

"A date," Gwen suggested, stepping back to get John out of her personal space. He seemed to have a knack for getting in one's face in much the same way that Jack did, but without the same easy charm. Possibly the difference sprang from the knowledge that Jack probably _wasn't_ likely to stab her in the stomach while she was distracted. "A date is generally how we do things around here."

"You're pulling my leg," John growled. "I've been in that city; they're all fucking in alleyways and toilets like normal people. None of this 'date' business."

"Take her – or him – on a _date_," Gwen said, not realising that she'd started pointing a staple-gun (what _was_ that doing in here?) at him, "or leave them alone, John. If I find you've been dragging people down alleyways – " she left the threat hanging in the air, unsure of how to finish it with something both frightening and believable, "- I'll … I'll let Ianto loose on you."

John ignored the threat. "How do – "

"Please go away," Gwen said, still holding the staple-gun at chest height, "ask Tosh or someone else."

"Last time I tried to speak to her she hit me in the face with a clipboard," John whined.

"Really?" Gwen asked, feeling a surge of affection towards her usually reserved colleague.

"She doesn't _like_ me, does she?" He looked petulant.

"… not really. You _did_ nearly kill Owen." Gwen frowned.

"Only _nearly_," John protested. "Does _anyone_ here like me?"

"Broadly speaking," Gwen admitted, brandishing the staple-gun with a grim expression, "_no_."

Ianto came in from the back office and eyed the scene before him with apparent concern, his hands clasped behind his back. "Is that a staple-gun?"

"Yes?" Gwen said, rather surprised to find that she'd been threatening John with something that might actually have succeeded in hurting him a little.

"The one from the desk on your left?" Ianto pressed, sounding quite worried now.

"Yes? What?"

"… if I were you," Ianto said slowly, "I'd wash my hands before I _ate_ anything."

* * *

 

John had read _The Rules of Dating People_ from cover to cover and was no clearer on how he was going to go about this strange 21st Century ritual, and Owen was probably going to notice that his book was gone soon.

It wasn't that the advice contained in the book wasn't _helpful_, it was just that the book made certain assumptions that manifestly didn't apply to this situation. For example, it assumed the presence of, say, hands. And clothes.

He climbed onto the narrow brick wall that separated him from the object of his affections and whistled into the garden below.

An immaculately neat head poked around the door to the living room – it was one of those sliding glass ones, and it had been left a little open, presumably to air the house.

"Hi," John said, trying to sound confident and charming and in control and above all _sexy_ in the face of the liquid brown stare that was now fixed on him. "I, er, hi. I noticed you around." He took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you … maybe dinner? A few drinks?"

* * *

 

"Did Tosh _really_ hit him in the face with a clipboard?" Owen asked. It was hard to tell whether he was impressed or disappointed, or really to tell what he was saying at all.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Gwen suggested as he started choking on his chow mein.

After watching Owen cough and splutter for a while, Ianto thumped him manfully on the back and added helpfully, "chew before you swallow." He helped himself to some of Owen's noodles. "And yes she did. There wasn't anything else to hand."

"And to be fair," Gwen said, "I looked at the footage – he _had_ just tried to stick his hand up her skirt."

Owen stopped scooping up noodles with cack-handed chopsticks and said, "Huh," in a far-off and contemplative voice.

* * *

 

Cardiff was a rising metropolis and cultural centre, the manager of Tongo's reminded himself, as well as the face-stabbing capital of the British Isles. And culture meant that weirdos would show up occasionally, and if they had money it was usually a good idea to humour them.

There were, however, health and safety regulations one simply couldn't violate.

"I'm sorry, _sir_, he said through clenched teeth, "but you can't bring your dog in here. It's against city health restrictions - this is a place where people _eat_."

* * *

 

Owen scrabbled around in the bottom of his locker. There were fifty-eight unused condoms, a bottle of Hibiscrub, a sealed packet of sterile gloves, a half-eaten box of Orange Matchmakers, a lone sports sock with a Twiglet stuck to it, the record sleeve for a Undertones LP with no record in it, and a largely empty jar of Marmite, but …

"Have you seen my book?"

"_Seven Habits of Highly Embarrassing Saddos_?" Ianto asked, picking up an empty mug from the top of the lockers and raising his eyebrows.

"No – "

"_How to Get Friends Into Trouble and Irritate People_?" Ianto put the mug down on a tray of similarly grubby errant drinking vessels. He didn't sound particularly interested.

"_No_ -" Owen snapped, frustrated.

"_Overcoming Natural Handicaps in Order to Screw Up Simple Things_?" Ianto hazarded, "_How to Have No Email Etiquette_?"

"No, it's – " Owen paused and licked his lips. "It's got a yellow cover," he finished somewhat lamely.

"Ah," Ianto said, picking up the tray. "Not one you've written yourself, then."

"… why would I have written a book?" Owen frowned, forgetting for a moment that he'd been stolen from. "Why would any of us have written a book? Have _you_ written a book?"

"Three, actually."

* * *

 

"I'm really sorry," John sighed as they watched a jogger go past. "I had no idea restaurants were so narrow-minded." He gave the park a despondent look. "Not much of a first date, eh, Binky?"

Binky whined. A tail cut to look rather like a mushroom cloud thumped on the wooden slats of the bench.

"It's nice of you to say so," John said, "but in the book it says I'm meant to give you flowers and chocolates and back massages."

Binky yipped.

"Allergic?" John said. "Well, I suppose it's a good thing that I didn't, then. Still, this … this could have gone better." He was about to add something else, but Binky wriggled closer along the bench and licked his cheek. "Are we _meant_ to do that on a first date?"

Binky barked and bounded off the bench, towards the nearby bushes, stopping and looking expectantly back at him with one foreleg raised and head cocked.

John grinned, "What, _really_?"

Binky barked again.

"All _right_!" John took off into the bushes, already unbuckling his belt.

* * *

 

"You mean to tell me he's been out for fifteen hours and none of you thought to – "Jack yelled, his voicing ringing through the headquarters like the klaxons for the end of the world (Ianto had tested them just last week).

"He's on a date," Gwen said soothingly.

"He's being tracked," Tosh added, pointing to a screen displaying contour map of Cardiff.

"A date?" Jack exclaimed. "He doesn't go on _dates_. We don't _do_ dates where we – he – I – in the 51st Century – "

There was a low swish and a hum and the ceiling opened as a flat platform slid down.

Torchwood stared.

John Hart (no one would call him "Captain" anything) stood on the elevator with a smug expression. He wore a thick black leather collar around his neck, attached by a ring to a long leather lead, the handle of which was held –

\- in the mouth of a large well-groomed black poodle.

"Hi," John said. "This is Binky."

The dog pawed insistently at his leg for a second and John added with a start, "oh yeah, I'm meant to apologise for worrying you last night."

Torchwood stared.

Eventually Gwen said, "Please tell me he's not going out with a _dog_."

"I dated a giant squid once," Jack said cheerfully.

"D'you think it would be trite," Ianto muttered to Owen, "to observe that these 51st Century men always seem to want to be _someone's_ bitch?"

Owen stuck his hands in his pockets and whispered back, "No, but it _would_ be more information than I _ever_ wanted, thanks mate."

"Well," Jack said, "hi, Binky. Welcome to the team."


End file.
